Whatever happened to tolerating players who are prime performers? The Eagles’ offense a diminished product without Jackson

OK, I get it that DeSean Jackson didn’t fall out of a 1950s episode of Leave It To Beaver or Ozzie and Harriet.

Jackson is not going to be a chaperone for the Vienna Boys Choir. Or be a church deacon.

Still, what kind of football sense did it make for the Eagles to jettison one of the NFL’s most breathtaking playmakers in the prime of his career without any compensation apparently because he rubbed Chip Kelly like sandpaper on his thong?

The Eagles knew about Jackson’s alleged gang connections years ago. The LADPD said the other day that Jackson has never been connected to any gang-related murders.

Aaron Hernandez he ain’t.

Of course, now there are whispers that the Eagles have more dirt on Jackson that they evidently are keeping to themselves. Maybe, maybe so. But rumors are like whiffs of smoke. Intangible until they are cast in concrete.

Those rumors are not scaring away the Redskins or other Jackson suitors now that he has been divested of his fat contract and is a free agent.

Before Jackson’s release, the Birds had trouble trading him because teams and their salary caps couldn’t digest his contract.

For the record, Jackson has never been arrested for anything more serious than marijuana possession and driving with tinted windows and those charges came five years ago and were eventually dropped.

Justin Bieber he ain’t.

Jackson has never tested positive for a banned substance.

What’s the worst thing he did in six years with the Eagles? He was suspended for one game in 2011 for missing a team meeting. They don’t give you the chair for that.

What he has done is make big plays more often than anybody in the history of the franchise, a lethal and proven speed merchant.

Now the Birds likely will have to draft a wideout, but that always is a crap shoot. If potential always translated into performance, Canton would be bursting at the seams.

Meanwhile, the Eagles have to make do with Riley Cooper, who had a couple big games in the middle of last season but was rather mediocre otherwise, and Jeremy Maclin, who doesn’t have game-breaking ability and that was before his ACL popped like a guitar string last summer.

You dug this Grand Canyon hole, Chip Kelly. Hope you have some extra magic tricks up your offensive genius sleeve to overcome Jackson’s loss.

Perhaps Jeff Lurie now will change Philadelphia’s nickname to the Boy Scouts.

If Richard Branson would ever get depressed, he’s insane

I don’t live a bad lifestyle, definitely an upgrade from being a peasant in the Middle Ages or one of the poor blokes who got stuck building the Pyramids without the benefit of sunscreen or Gatorade.

But my life absolutely sucks compared to Sir Richard Branson.

The multimillionaire entrepreneur owns 74-acre Necker Island in the British Virgin Islands where he kiteboards through sparkling Caribbean waters with nubile, nude blonde model Denni Parkinson clinging to his back.

Wonder if Sir Walter Raleigh lived as well?

Possible Nor’easter bomb next week could tear apart the fabric of our souls, not to mention our spines!

We all know only too well that weather predictions, especially those forecasting snow, are about as reliable as the warranty on that junker you purchased at Fast Eddie’s Very Used Cars.

So take it with a grain of salt (and does anybody actually ingest a mere grain of salt?) that we tortured souls in the mid-Atlantic coast could get hit with a Nor’easter bomb late Tuesday night.

We could be buried under an avalanche and buffeted by winds high enough to carve us in half, which would put a definite crimp in our tip-toeing through the tulips on Easter.

Then again, the storm could track east and dump all its misery on the sharks in the Atlantic Ocean.

Whatever the snow outcome, it seems semi-certain that the eastern U.S. will once again be subjected to freezing temperatures next week.

Ain’t global warming a bitch?

The Phillies are bad to the bone

It wasn’t all that long ago when the Phillies won more regularly than the Harlem Globetrotters and the Roman Empire.

But yesterday isn’t today.

And today the Phillies stink worse than a polecat at a fish market.

Speaking of today, the Phillies got clobbered 8-1 by the Braves, falling to 2-9-2 on the spring exhibition circuit.

The Phillies are playing like a bunch of sour lemons in the Grapefruit League.

They can’t hit. They’ve been held to one run or less five times. Going into today’s game they were hitting a collective .194.

It’s so bad that Phillies fans now are cheering hard-hit foul balls.

Not that there has been an abundance of them, what with all the swings and misses providing enough wind power to serve as an alternative energy source.

Phillies hitters don’t need a hitting coach. They need a seeing-eye dog.

The Phils can’t pitch a lick either. They now are scouting junior high teams in search of a fifth starter.

Meanwhile No. 1 starter Cole Hamels has a fatigued left arm, probably from combing his hair.

Their bullpen is so much bullspit.

Suffice it to say their pitching is about as armed as the Venus de Milo.

Their roster is older than Methuselah. Even their bobble heads sit in wheelchairs.

Forget that old adage that hope springs eternal. Hopes of a good Phillies season are dead even before arrival.

It’s only early March and you already can put a toe tag on this Phillies season.

Putin lodged in Crimea like a clump of soggy Wheaties stuck to the side of your cereal bowl

It’s going to take a bit more than a crowbar to pry Russia out of Ukraine’s Crimea region.

Vladimir Putin, who has never been confused for Bob Hope, harbors strong personal feelings about the Ukrainian crisis — which he blames on the West.

The Russian strongman sees Ukraine as a defining moment of his 14-year rule and a key turning point for the post-Cold War Europe, one in which Russia mimics the empire of the once Soviet Union.

So it hardly was news today that Russia rebuffed Western demands to withdraw forces in Ukraine’s Crimea region to their bases amid a day of high-stakes diplomacy in Paris aimed at easing tensions over Ukraine and averting the risk of war.

Putin is a thuggish peacock who relishes commanding center stage.

He acts and speaks with the bravado of a former KGB agent suspicious of Western plots.

Deviousness flows inside him with a microbe’s cunning.

He never is strangled by a contractive spasm of timidity.

When Ukraine was unraveling into a chaotic cacophony of division, Putin moved in with a derisive snort.

It is difficult to feel a there-will-definitely-be-a-pony-under-the-tree optimism that this will end well for the U.S. and the West.

Putin rejected Western accusations of Russian aggression against Ukraine, saying the U.S. should know better, given what it has done.

“We have to remind them about the U.S. action in Iraq, Afghanistan and Libya, where they acted without any sanction of the United Nations Security Council, or willfully interpreted its resolution as in the case of Libya,” he said. “Our partners, particularly in the United States, always clearly formulate their geopolitical and state interests and aggressively pursue them. They try to pull the rest of the world under them and start hitting those who put up resistance, eventually finishing them off, as a rule.”

Granted, Putin failed to mention that the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan in December 1979, starting a war that lasted for nearly a decade and precipitated the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Then again, nobody ever accused Putin of being a straight shooter.

Sadly, we can’t say the same about his troops.